


how was i to know

by ohlawsons



Series: the deòir twins [4]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, alternate title: The Boys Try To Get Their Shit Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlawsons/pseuds/ohlawsons
Summary: The dust begins to settle after Sun In Shadow.Owain has a family matter to settle, Aloth has the Leaden Key to pursue, and neither of them are quite ready for their paths to diverge.





	how was i to know

**Author's Note:**

> finger guns bc guess who's writing fic again  
> sidenote: i'd originally planned for these two to actually get together around midway through pillars, but the reunion/relationship in deadfire was _so good_ and i love it. i've written a couple things where these two are together before then, but you can consider that au at this point  
> also, the twins' backstory is 100% inspired by the bizarre fact that "aristocrat" is a background option for the white that wends

It ends — as most things with Owain do — with a party.

The Celestial Sapling is filled with their tired, ragged group, and Owain is the most tired and ragged of them but he leads them all night, buying drinks for near everyone in the inn and convincing (or paying off, Aloth suspects) first a local chanter, then Kana, to sing some uproarious songs. Several times throughout the evening, he raises his mug in something between a toast and a prayer, thanking various gods for their patronage or luck during their travels; Berath is first, to ease the passing of anyone lost, then Rymrgand for his blessing that allowed them into Sun in Shadow, then Eothas for having the good sense not to stick around with any of the other gods, and Owain gets halfway through a pointed argument against Ondra before his sister pulls him away.

Aloth doesn’t understand, at first, the need for such revelry when their group is still trying to grapple with everything they saw and experienced over the past three days; it’s Sagani who explains it to him, about halfway through the night when she brings him another glass of wine and invites herself to take the empty seat beside him.

“Cheer up,” she says, setting down the glass and taking a long swig of whatever it is she’s drinking. “Or Owain might actually come over here and raise a toast to _you_.”

He frowns. “I don’t see the necessity for _any_ toasts.” They ended the Legacy, and Thaos with it, yes, but that just leaves the issue of the Leaden Key for Aloth, and the burden of all the things they learned of the gods to weigh on all of them. A celebration is in order, of course, but something like _this_? Owain’s typically more tactful about his parties. “Well,” Aloth amends, frown deepening, “perhaps we _could_ use a toast, but not something so extravagant.”

“That sort of thinking is _exactly_ why we need something this extravagant,” Sagani shoots back, propping one arm on the back of her chair and surveying the rest of the inn with a casual disinterest. “We saw a lot of shit down there. This way, Owain gets to focus on the good. ‘Sides, no one here knows about the things we saw. The people of the Dyrwood are just gonna see that all these years of darkness are coming to an end, and they have the Watcher to thank for it.”

“I suppose that does make sense.” It’s not how _he_ would do things, of course, but then again Aloth’s never loved being the center of attention the way Owain does. “He can also ensure the Dyrwood _knows_ they have him to thank for it.”

Sagani gives a slow nod, tipping her glass towards Aloth in the semblance of a toast. “Now you’ve got it.”

Aloth doesn’t answer, his focus captured by the Watcher as he sits at the bar, tankard in one hand while the other waves through the air as he tells some tale about spirits and guls that Aloth can just make out pieces of over the din of the crowd. Even with as exhausted as Owain looks, he seems _livelier_ than Aloth has ever seen him, and he thinks back to something Hiravias had said upon their return about the Watcher’s blurred soul coming into focus. That isn’t how he would’ve phrased it, exactly, but he can’t deny that Owain has been more self-assured and less paranoid than he’s seen since meeting him in Gilded Vale all those months before.

“Yer right hopeless, boy.”

Sagani regards Aloth with a slow raise of an eyebrow, then shrugs and takes another drink. “I’ve been sayin’ the same thing, Iselmyr.”

Hoping that the heat on his face — somehow — doesn’t mean that he’s blushing right up to the tips of his ears, Aloth sends a few choice mental words towards Iselmyr and takes a long sip of his wine.

* * *

 

Owain disappears halfway through the night, and Aloth tries not to think too hard on where the Watcher might’ve gone off to (Iselmyr snickers and offers her own ideas on where he’s gone, and Aloth’s too tired to bother with a rebuttal). It isn’t long after he’s noticed Owain’s absence that Anwyn approaches him, posture stiff and eyes dark. “Talk him out of it. He’s letting a little bit of victory go straight to his head,” she adds on, as if it’s enough of an explanation.

“Talk him out of what?”

“Second floor, third room on the left.” Anwyn holds out a key, saying nothing else.

With a frown, Aloth takes the key and stands slowly, eyeing Anwyn carefully. Even with as… eager, he supposes, that Owain can be, he’s never done something so rash or reckless to draw such a reaction from his sister, and that’s enough to make him suspicious. With a nod at the other elf, he makes his way up to the room and knocks, twice. There’s no answer either time, though Aloth can hear someone moving around from the other side. With a sigh — and no small amount of encouragement from Iselmyr — he unlocks the door and opens it slowly.

Owain is, as expected, inside, his long hair pulled back into a loose braid as he worries over the bed, where it seems as if all of his belongings have been carefully laid out. He glances up as Aloth enters, shoulders dropping. “Anwyn put you up to this.”

“…yes?” He hesitates. “She told me only to talk you out of something — which I now suspect is that you’re leaving.” The words are heavy, and Aloth knows _why_ but he pushes the reason aside and pretends it’s nothing more than concern for a friend who’s recently gone through quite the physical and spiritual ordeal.

The pale elf's entire body tenses, and he reaches over to grab a meticulously folded shirt. Without answering, Owain unfolds the shirt, his brow creasing as his jaw works in frustration, a now-familiar tic that Aloth has come to know over the past few months; the Watcher smooths nonexistent wrinkles from the white fabric, then carefully refolds the shirt. “I'm not leaving, necessarily,” he admits after a moment. “I'm… traveling back to the White That Wends.”

“Meaning you're leaving the Dyrwood.”

“Technically.”

“And Anwyn doesn't want you to.” Aloth still doesn't know the full story behind the twins’ childhood, and Owain's hesitance regarding the topic has kept him from ever pushing farther than the Watcher chose to go. “Were you invited, or is it—”

He's cut off by a sharp laugh as Owain shakes his head. “Hafdan always keeps a room open for us, so yes, I suppose you could say I was invited.” There’s a bitterness to the words, and as he finishes speaking Owain reaches to the bedside table to grab a carefully folded letter, tossing the paper at Aloth. It flutters just out of grasp at the foot of the bed, and he takes a long look down at it. “This arrived at Caed Nua the week before we left for Twin Elms. I’ve been… deciding how to handle it.”

When Owain makes no attempt at further clarification, Aloth lets out a slow breath, eyes flicking between the Watcher and the letter in an attempt to gauge _something_ more from the situation without prying. It already feels like too much, being here in Owain’s room as he prepares for a trip that will, as far as either of them know, separate the two. The thought brings with it a flash of something like panic, and Aloth can feel Iselmyr’s presence as she muscles her way to the forefront of their consciousness; he tries to slow her — if not stop her entirely — or discourage her or even just determine what she’s going to do, but he gets in little more than a strangled mental _wait_ and—

“D’ye think we’ll let ye go alone? Take us tae that arse of a lord and we’ll show him ye dinnae mess with our Watcher!”

It’s all that Aloth can do to get in another word of protest at Iselmyr’s indignant words, full of challenge and heat that’s gotten him into so much trouble in the past; he’s nearly pushed her back, but she resurges and forces a step towards the bed, reaching for the letter from Lord Hafdan and glaring down at it. Their eyes grow wide as they read, and Aloth only catches bits of phrases and sentences as Iselmyr scans the elegant script but it’s enough to gather that Hafdan wants to put a rather final end to the dispute that began with the twins’ father. Ostensibly, it’s a legal matter, but he and Iselmyr both catch the subtle threats in the note.

“Shite.”

Iselmyr’s quite expletive is just enough to draw the beginning of a grin at the corner of Owain’s mouth. “Agreed.” He pauses in his meticulous re-organization of his clothing to glance up at them. “As much as I appreciate your support, dear, I would like to hear Aloth’s opinion, as well.”

She relents, and Aloth gives his head a slow shake as he tries to force down his surprise at both the letter and Iselmyr’s outburst. “You have to know this is a trap. It’s been barely a month since he last sent assassins after you and your sister, and now he wants to settle things through diplomacy and a few signatures?” He doesn’t try to hide his concern, not now, because as much as he knows Owain would like to smooth everything over from his past, Aloth can’t help the surge of protectiveness; much of it comes from Iselmyr, still bristling there at the back of his mind, but he won’t deny that some of it is his own. “I”m sorry, Owain, but I find myself agreeing with Anwyn. I don’t think you should go.”

The room falls into silence, and Owain turns back to his packing, delicately smoothing out the collar of a garish blue shirt. “ _D_ _órheidr_ ,” he says without pretense, not looking up. “Our family name. Father chose new names for us when we reached Readceras, back when we were, oh,” he lets out a long breath, hands stilling as he thinks, “maybe eight years old? It was a game for us back then. A challenge. How many people can you fool? How good can your Aedyran get? How long can you go without thinking about Mother?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Owain looks up, seemingly startled at Aloth’s apology. “Anwyn and I were as competitive then as we are now, and I realized in time that our father just wanted us to grow up with a quiet life, away from the politics that drove him away from his home.” The shirt is tucked into his pack, and he reaches next for a thin grimoire atop the bedside table, one Aloth recognizes from his attempts to teach Owain some of the spells he’s so familiar with.

(The lessons quickly devolved into excuses for the two to spend time together, and Iselmyr gives Aloth the mental equivalent of an elbow to the side as she reminds him that those, too, will come to an end if Owain leaves.)

“If I can resolve this,” the Watcher continues, packing the grimoire away, seemingly unaware of the brief flicker of uncertainty that Aloth is _sure_ crosses his expression, “then I should. I’ve spent time in the White, and Readceras, and even Ixamitl, but when I think of home, I think of those years in the Living Lands studying souls and alchemy and the stars and all manner of sciences. I’m not going for the sake of nostalgia, I’m going to _end_ this, whether by diplomacy or by tearing apart the soul of the man responsible for the death of my father.”

“Owain—”

“I’m _going_ ,” he insists, ocher gaze hard as he looks up at Aloth; Owain’s determination hasn’t ever been anything but endearing, but now it leaves Aloth unsettled.

“If I can’t dissuade you, perhaps at least you could consider Iselmyr’s suggestion that you don’t go alone.”

He shakes his head. “And who’s to accompany me? My sister and Edér would cause a diplomatic incident. You have your work cut out for you, picking up the pieces of the Leaden Key. Nothing will stand between Pallegina and her home or Sagani and her family. It’s…” Owain falters, glancing down as his shoulders slump and his expression wavers. “I’ve asked too much of everyone already.”

The exhaustion in Owain’s voice draws equal parts boldness and concern from Aloth, and he reaches to take one of the Watcher’s calloused hands in his own. “Then allow me to offer, so you have no need to ask.”

They’ve been… _here_ , before, dancing at the edge of _something_ for weeks now, and the suggestion is as close as Aloth is going to get to taking that final step; he isn’t the force of charm and presence that Owain is, and even as their eyes meet Aloth feels his brief moment of confidence beginning to wane. Owain was right, after all, about the Leaden Key, and as much as they both deserve some time to rest and heal, the trip to the White and back will take _months_ and the organization’s secrecy means that any leads he has now will be long obsolete by the time they return.

But the offer still hangs in the air, and Aloth is nearly at the point of rescinding it when Owain reacts, shaking his head and giving a slow, owlish blink. His own grasp on Aloth’s hand tightens as he lets out a short sigh, and as he answers his voice is heavy — nearly pained, Aloth thinks. “I want nothing more than to accept your company, but—” Owain lets his hand slip free, and unceremoniously shoves the rest of his clothing into his pack, “—we both have things to attend to, matters more important than… well.” He pulls the bag onto his shoulder and takes a deep breath, but says nothing further.

“Yes, of course. You’re right.” Idle fingers play at the edge of his shirt hem, and the loss of warmth from the Watcher’s hand is more acute than Aloth had expected.

(In the back of their mind Iselmyr lets out a loud, insistent groan, and it’s perhaps the first time Aloth’s sensed such a wordless frustration from her. He shares the feeling, to an extent, but telling her so draws out a string of crude expletives rather than sympathy.)

The Watcher takes a step past Aloth, as if to leave, but he pauses mid-stride and turns back to him, a glint of intention and certainty in his eyes that’s so much more familiar than the fatigued expression it’s replaced. “Don’t take this as disinterest. It’s more of a… recognition of duty.” It’s the closest either of them have come to a confession, an admission, and the words are accompanied by the slow curl of Owain’s lips into a wry smile, and if Aloth’s eyes linger a second too long he tries to ignore it. He’s so close, Owain, and Aloth wonders, perhaps, if he could only be _certain_ …

“Fye, ye cannae leave whit the both of ye not sayin’ anything.”

The clear impatience in his — Iselmyr’s — voice is enough to make Aloth cringe, and he’s already looking away and apologizing as soon as she relents. But Owain breaks out into a wide grin, his entire demeanor brightening at the outburst. “You have something to say?” he prompts, and his eager, earnest tone is enough that Aloth finds himself nodding.

“It’s as you said — a recognition of duty. But were circumstances different, I would not object to continuing to travel with you. I’ve… The past few months, and everything you’ve done, it’s come to mean quite a lot to me.” He pauses for a breath, swallows hard; somehow Aloth manages to find his voice again, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s being prodded on by a cheerful Iselmyr. “That is… _you_ have come to mean quite a lot to me.”

Owain’s still beaming at him, but he hesitates with his response just long enough for doubt to begin to creep up in the back of Aloth’s mind; but then he’s reaching forward and kissing him, and Aloth is so momentarily overwhelmed by surprise and the sudden presence of the Watcher that by the time he’s aware of what’s happening, Owain is pulling back. He looks far too pleased with himself, despite the flush of color on his pale blue cheeks, but when he speaks the words are almost sheepish. “I’ve wanted to do that for… gods, months now. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have— I never wanted to push things or make you uncomfortable. I should—” He pauses and clears his throat. “I’ve felt similarly, for some time, if that hasn’t been made clear.”

“ _Months_?” He isn’t certain if it’s him or Iselmyr who speaks first.

“Easy, dear,” Owain says with a chuckle — he’s speaking to Iselmyr, then — “I only waited this long because I had his best interests in mind. What would’ve happened if I’d acted back after the riots?”

“You’d have put my mind — and Iselmyr’s — to rest,” Aloth admits, his voice now entirely his own; he can’t help but wonder if Owain’s really been holding back all this time, if there had been something about that night that had changed his mind about Aloth. If so it would be quite the surprise, given that it hadn’t exactly been his finest moment — a rushed confession amongst a camp of fleeing refugees, set against a backdrop of a burning city. “Has it truly been so long?”

Had he known, somehow, back during all those weeks with quiet days at Caed Nua, shared conversation while they made camp, those sly grins and subtle winks meant only for Aloth just before Owain charmed or flirted or bargained his way into archives and personal libraries and arcane repositories — well, how _could_ he have known? Owain has something of a reputation for his way with words, after all, just as comfortable with lies and half-truths as he is threats or flirtations or political doublespeak.

He’s clever, and perhaps Aloth admires him for it, but it only makes his words that much harder to trust.

“Ah, well, perhaps not _quite_ so far back, though that may be where it started.” Owain pauses, one hand reaching up to tug on the braid that rests on his shoulder. “I— You were dealing with so much, with Iselmyr and the Leaden Key and everything, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to burden you with anything. That is, not if you weren’t… if you didn’t…” He pauses again, straightening and readjusting the bag on his shoulder as he looks up at Aloth, giving an easy smile that isn’t quite genuine. “Although I suppose it’s all a bit irrelevant, now. You have a secret organization to run and I have estranged family to contend with, after all.”

And there — it’s back, the smooth lilt to his voice, the confident beat to the words, the little quirk of his brow that challenges anyone to contradict him. It all feels a bit artificial, Aloth thinks, given the moment of hesitant vulnerability Owain had just shared, but he has a point, as pragmatic as ever. “Of course. And should our paths cross again…” He doesn’t dare voice the rest of the thought.

“I certainly hope they do.” Owain brightens and his smile widens, but there’s a warmth behind it now. He glances towards the door, then back to Aloth, and hesitates, before settling for an unceremonious clap to his shoulder. “Keep in touch, both of you. Anwyn’s staying at the Keep and I’ll be back before you know it.” He winks, and then he’s gone, making his way out the door and down the hall.

Maybe there’s an offer in his parting words, or maybe Aloth’s imagining it; for as much as it sounds like a farewell it also sounds like a promise, and he’ll hold tight to that as they both tend to their own duties and somehow, it dulls the sting of the goodbye.

The thought is met with a surly sigh. _Dinnae let_ _‘im git away_.

 _We have business to attend to_ , he admonishes, though he senses that Iselmyr has already given up on swaying him. _But_ _… a few visits to Caed Nua once Owain returns may be in order_.


End file.
